


In the Wet and Angry Evening

by lynndyre



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Second Age, Siege of Mordor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-19 12:04:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5966776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynndyre/pseuds/lynndyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the siege of Mordor, Thranduil and Elrond find common ground.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Wet and Angry Evening

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Deathangelgw](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deathangelgw/gifts).



It rained, and seemed to fall already polluted, unpleasant and unrefreshing, forming a curtain of warm grey wet such that heat alternated with humid chill and left even the healthiest of bodies feeling that feverish damp. The soil, ravaged by the death of all that had grown within it, and bereft of the roots that had held it secure, was then churned and ill-fed by those that died upon it, and threatened to prove unequal to the task of holding them. Already the water table was shifting, creeping closer to the grave-pits.

In the besieging camp, tempers ran short, as the weather combined with loss and fear and inactivity. In the war tent erected for Oropher and Amdir, Celeborn now stood witness to the confrontation of their sons.

"You intend to renounce the kingship your father stood for, to yield command of your people to a High King who cares little for any beyond the Noldor?"

"Sovereignty has brought us to this! We are outside the fold, and treated as such."

"And submission will better us in what way? It will not bring us inside Gil-Galad's circle, it will not outfit our warriors with armour strong enough to defend them.

Amroth turned his face away, and Thranduil's expression twisted. "Ah. It will absolve you of guilt."

"Are you so like Oropher, then, that you will rejoice to command further death?"

Thranduil snarled and Amroth stepped back, face showing clearly the realization of having spoken too far. Celeborn stepped between them, and Thranduil let his eyes focus on the silver curtain of his hair, kept that in his sights as his stepped around them and strode from the tent.

Amroth was young. Amroth was unused to command. Amroth was a simpering coward and Thranduil wished Celeborn well of trying to manage him, Celeborn had far greater stores of patience than Thranduil felt himself capable of.

 

In the easternmost healing tent Elrond sat in the shadows. Dusk had crept early over the plain, and the only light was a low, warm orange from the small crystalline lamp that shone, unfed, in its ceiling sconce. His hands clenched, fingers digging into his own flesh until he forced them to release, yet always clenching again. Action was impossible, anything that might draw attention was insupportable. Months upon months of close quarters amid death and desolation, three years with all the troops of Lindon and Numenor-that-was, piled deep into his little valley until she strained with it; Elrond wanted to be _alone_. His hands clenched tighter still, the muscles of his arms straining to press his fists into his thighs, to remain silent and still. 

About him, the injured slept, their energy a low, wounded constancy that Elrond let himself feel, let to wash over him, tormenting himself with what he could not change.

In the closest bed, a silvan elf lay shut-eyed and unmoving, brown hair burned short and skin seared by a liquid fire. Elrond knew the feel of burned flesh, knew how it healed, how it died off, how it scarred, how it needed to mend. Yet his own spirit had betrayed him, would not reach outside himself, refused, in utter impotence, to bridge the distance that would let him give aid.

It was a consequence of killing. He had known it.

He had not expected it.

He had not known it would be like this.

 

After a few minutes breathing the night air Thranduil turned his face away from the stars and made his way to the healing tent. Galion had been close to Oropher, in life, and near to him when he died. He suffered still for the privilege, with burns slow to heal and a spirit vastly unsuited to war.

The atmosphere of the tent was close. In the absence of green, in the dearth of supplies, all available herbs were for cooking or healing, and no excess remained to sweeten the air, which circulated little in the damp absence of wind. It smelled of pain.

Galion was asleep. And Elrond, the Herald, was watching.

 

All the lines of Thranduil's body bespoke a frustration, a leashed intensity akin to that which struggled and strove within Elrond's chest. He took a breath, and forced it slow to fill the lowest pit of his lungs.

"Thranduil of the Greenwood."

Barely shielded wild anger flared bright and dangerous in Thranduil's eyes though his body moved not at all.

"Elrond, Herald of the Hidden Valley."

Collecting himself to offer diplomacy forced a degree of serenity on Elrond himself, and the distraction was not unwelcome. "You came to visit someone?"

Tension slackened its coil and Elrond saw Thranduil release his own slow breath, fingers relinquishing their tight grip on the tent pole to spread and play across the carven suggestion of a trunk and branches.

"Would I were somewhere with living trees."

It was an innocuous statement, for all those who go to war miss their homes, yet Elrond felt the compliment offered in it- Thranduil son of Oropher of the Greenwood was not one to show weakness, even so slight, without a degree of trust behind it.

"I came to visit him-" The sweep of Thranduil's hand indicated the brown-haired elf Elrond had failed to aid, "but I will not wake him. Let him dream of something better than this." He passed his hand over the sleeping elf's face, and Elrond felt the energy of his intent, the shift in spirit as pain eased and sleep deepened.

"Thank you"

"Do you know him?" Thranduil cocked his head to one side.

"I had never met any in this tent before they came here. I am-" Elrond stood, brushing down his tunic. "I was a healer, before I was a herald. I have helped as I could, when other duties allowed. Of late it has grown more difficult. Now— I have fallen far enough that it will no longer come. I could do nothing." I have lost myself to this, this grey nothing of endless killing. Elrond clenched his jaw, and those words remained inside. He was conscious of his grimace, under Thranduil's assessing gaze.

"Thank you. I'm afraid I had grown to expect those of the High King's court to be less concerned with mine and Amroth's people. I am glad Galion had your care, even if you could not do as much." He reached out his hand and clasped Elrond's wrist, soldier to soldier, and his offered smile was lopsided and bright. "And I am glad someone has had a worse day than I have."

Elrond startled himself by laughing. 

"Come out of here. Come and have a drink with me, and we will leave Galion to sleep." 

Elrond followed Thranduil from the tent, and did not comment when he bent to speak words of dreaming over other of the wounded.

 

In the Greenwood camp Thranduil offered Elrond wine, thin and sour, but safer by far than drinking any of the waters nearby. And he offered lembas, half smiling when Elrond examined the unfamiliar wrapping. "It is from the Lady Galadriel's fields in Lothlorien. She will see that her husband does not starve, even if the supply lines often run low before reaching our camps."

Elrond bit down, and let it melt against his tongue. It was different from the lembas grown and baked in Rivendell, and almost he felt he could taste Galadriel's intent in the bread. Sustenance. Strength. Healing. 

Thranduil took his own small bite, and wrapped the leaves tight again, set it aside. Elrond resolved to check the supply distribution with his own eyes. Necessary though it might be to direct greater stores to the camps of Men and Dwarves who could not be sustained long on elven rations, Lothlorien and Greenwood's forces deserved as much consideration as Lindon's own troops. Greenwood's king likewise invited deeper examination, and Elrond, who had shared pleasure rarely since his youth, stepped willingly into Thranduil's arms and met his advances with equal power.

The anger that burned in Thranduil was familiar—not cruel but frustrated, seeking, needing. The intensity of it was bright as sunlight on his skin, sinking into him and quickening his senses. He sought his own pleasure and escape in the connection, and desired Thranduil to take all he could find in return. 

After, in the quiet of their bodies, the rain had risen again, and they listened past the flapping of the tent fabric to be sure of the sound of thunder, and not enemy drums.

"I offered Galion dreams. A pleasant and perfect escape from all of this, and a sleep without pain while he heals. He will find it a cruelty when waking comes." Elrond felt Thranduil's sigh. "I would rather this. Imperfect. At least it is real."

Elrond pressed his assent into Thranduil's skin with his lips.

They were neither of them eager to abandon the comfort of connection, and lay close and warm, touching without speaking, until Thranduil slipped beneath the surface of sleep. Elrond lay awake in the deep night, feeling the energy of Thranduil's body singing against his own, tracing the scars that marked it, the bruises and shallow marks.

Elrond whispered to a dark, purpled span over Thranduil's ribs, where a harsh blow must have caught armour. His own energies would not reach out, and so he only spoke, his breath warm between their bodies, praising the damaged flesh as it renewed itself. It responded easily, willing and happy to be so encouraged.

After this war, Thranduil would return to the forest he loved. Gil-Galad, friend and king, would return to Lindon free of the weight of this campaign and take pleasure in the world once more. Elrond would return to Imladris, and listen to the music of the waterfalls, and never have need to kill. Let them sustain each other against every torturous reality, and after this war all their spirits would be able to heal.

Elrond pressed his face into the spill of Thranduil's hair, and let the smell of Thranduil's skin draw him into musky, imperfect dreams.


End file.
